


Admission

by ArtemisofEphesus



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, admission, the choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisofEphesus/pseuds/ArtemisofEphesus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to "The Choice": because I know that not only my heart broke when I heard the last two lines of that exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admission

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the time frame between the airing of "The Choice" and "Help Me", so I obviously didn't know how S6 was going to turn out!

She's standing in the doorway to his office.

 

He is leaning back into the cool black leather of his chair when he looks up and notices her slight figure positioned there, off-center, almost outside the frame, as if simultaneously trying to escape and draw attention to herself. His legs are propped up on the edge of the desk, resting next to his coffee-gone-vodka mug, his bottle of non-addictive and thus, completely useless Ibuprofen pills, his oversize tennis ball, a stack of papers and unopened mail. Relics marking him as a creature of the past trying to navigate the fickle present.

 

She's never just stood in the doorway, he muses. She's burst in like an angry gust of wind through the crack underneath a Victorian window, she's stumbled in like a sparrow who had just crashed into its glass panes, she's crept in like a hesitant spider testing the ground on the other side of the windowsill. But she's always come straight in; she's never lacked in the courage or the foolishness required to cross the threshold into his kingdom. He wonders what has caused her to hold back, this time.

 

Her right shoulder is resting casually against the post of the door frame, attempting to convey relaxation and openness. The small smile on her face appears, on first glance, far less tired than he is used to seeing on her of late. An unexpected smile. He doesn't see many of those, these days. But he is House, master of all that is hidden and concealed, and on second glance he knows that this smile has skeletons in its closet. Just like the mind and the heart and the soul, the body is also capable of hiding the truth and feeding its observer lies.

 

Her breath, warm on his neck. Her fingers twining into his hair. Her lips, red and swollen and whimpering, moaning. Her hands, exploring, mapping, devouring. The softness of her hair, the sound of her gasps. Her body, welcoming his. Her, her, all her. All lies.

 

"I hired a replacement," she begins, with the easy, relaxed air that signifies anything but ease. "For my P.A."

 

She pauses for a moment, waiting for House to make a trademark comment which doesn't come. Her voice seems to lack its usual weariness, brought on by long days and too-short nights spent lying awake or soothing a teething Rachel. "She seems great."

 

He remains impassive, weighing up her words and the uncharacteristic perkines for hidden meanings before offering tentative congratulations. Yes, he could play this game as well.

 

"Good work," he offers casually.

 

"You too." It comes almost to quickly, as if planned, forced. He can now tell she's nervous under the smiling, complimenting exterior. "Your patient's going home tomorrow."

 

"He doesn't have a home."

 

With any other case, it would be a typical remark, a smug reminder that he had once again broken through the wall of lies and uncovered the Truth, the shattered family being only the inevitable side effect. But the tone is different this time, he realises. There is no schadenfreude in his voice – just an admission.

 

She is quiet for a brief moment, scrutinising his features for thecomment she knows he is bound to make, just as he has done in the same moment. Nothing comes, and it surprises them both.

 

Taking a few steps forward, she decides to continue.

 

"You want to... grab a bite to eat?" Her voice is still overly cheerful, but the smile now comes across as forced. He feels her eyes on his; expectant, waiting. Hopeful?

 

He doesn't answer her question, instead evading. Always evading. "So, Wilson got to you too," he rebuts.

 

It's more a statement than a question, though he can sense immediately that it isn't true. Wilson may have the guts to manipulate House's team – albeit it costing him a few hundred dollars – but he would have lacked the courage to go to Cuddy with the same now that Lucas was in the picture. He would draw the line there.

 

Oh, would he?

 

Her response isn't planned this time. Her lips almost stumble over the words before she catches herself, not expecting his question. For a moment, she is genuinely taken aback.

 

"No. This is... just me."

 

House remains impassive. So, Wilson had indeed lacked the guts to bribe her to spend time with him. Or the cash. Figures.

 

"Lucas?" he asks hesitantly.

 

"Working late," she replies, simply.

 

Again, he remains silent, still trying to decipher her motive for inviting him, trying to keep the cocktail of anger and sadness he had been wallowing in prior to her entry from creeping up his throat like bile.

 

She tries again, in what he can see is her last attempt at convincing him. She forces an even wider smile, dangling her offer in front of him one more time. "I'm buying!"

 

The anger squirming its way up his oesophagus dissipates, leaving only the dull ache of sadness weighing him down. God, how badly he wants to say yes, to sit with her, to hold her in his arms and feel her lips on his, her body pressed up against his. To escape the pain. To live.

 

But he forces the images back. She had made it only too clear that she didn't want anything else to do with him when she had started dating Lucas. Lucas, who had once been his friend. She had made it clear that there would never be anything between them, could never be anything between them. And slowly, he had come to accept that. That he had long missed any chance to be with her.

 

And so he declines.

 

"I'm not that hungry." His voice is low; his tone almost apologetic. He sees the regret written across her face like glistening ink on paper, her mouth trying to form words and stumbling. He feels the regret inside his chest, like a hot red balloon expanding and pressing the air out of his lungs.

 

Her arms fall to her sides in defeat. "Ok", she near whispers.

 

She turns to leave, her walk slipping from confident to conquered, her shoulders dropping, her head hanging. Just as she has almost crossed the threshold, he sees her steps lessen in speed; her hand lift to brush her hair out of her eyes. She turns, eyes slowly, depserately rising to meet his.

 

The words slip off her tongue quickly. "I broke it off with Lucas."

 

She feels as if a weight has been lifed off her heart. She watches him, heart hammering, studying his eyes for an involuntary reaction or flash of emotion. Anything that would tell her what is going on inside his head. Moments pass, neither of them saying a word.

 

The scraping of his jeans across the papers on his desk and the dull thump of his cane and feet on the floor break the silence. He stands, awkwardly, one hand fixed on his thigh, the other supporting his weight on his cane. He takes a step towards her, and another, fixing his eyes on hers, finding them nervous, anticipating his reaction. She's trying her best not to show it, but once again her body betrays her.

 

When he speaks again, standing three feet in front of her, he tries his very best to hide the anger and hurt now threatening to boil over inside him. Luckily, he has had more practise in hiding his emotions than Cuddy. While she is an open children's book, its illustrations vibrant and lucid, he is an antique tome; faded writing and dusty jacket hiding its contents. Still, he does not manage to completely veil his reaction.

 

"You've just left your boyfriend and already you're standing in my office practically begging me to be your rebound guy?"

 

She flinches, visibly taken aback by House's accusation.

 

"No! No, House, it's... it's not like that at all!"

 

"Oh yeah?" he rebuts. "Then what is it? Tell me, what do you want from me, Cuddy?" He's angry now, angry and hurting and frustrated. How many times had he asked her this in his mind? How many times had she just left him standing there in the proverbial rain? How many times had he tried to reach out to her in friendship, in more than friendship, and been shot down?

 

And how many times has he done the same to her?

 

Barely perceptible tears are beginning to form in her eyes. He immediately regrets losing his temper so quickly, letting the anger and frustration of a year's effort escape. But he needs to know what she wants from him. Needs to.

 

She swallows, trying to get herself under control, not answering his question immediately. Breathe. In and out. In and out.

 

"I... I want you, House," she finally replies, her voice soft and cracked, as if about to cry, her gaze directed at the carpet in front of her. "Lucas... I thought I would be happy with him. He was caring, and made me feel loved, and was great with Rachel. And I was happy. Happier than I had been in a long time." A tear runs over her cheek. "But then... it just didn't go any further. We hit a dead end. He just wasn't..." She turns her head away and holds back a sob.

 

House's anger vanishes instantaneously. He knows that she had been happy with Lucas for the first few months. Everyone had been able to see that, even the dimmest pediatrics nurse who had just scraped through their exams. And he knows that the decision to break up with Lucas can't have been easy for her to make. And yet he pushes. Because he has to know.

 

"What wasn't he, Cuddy?"

 

She looks up at him, eyes red with tears and streaked black by smudged mascara. Vulnerable.

 

"You."

 

God. How he wants to reach out and hold her, let her bury herself in his arms, soothe her and stroke her hair. He wants to tell her what he's been trying to tell her for years. But nothing comes. He stands as if paralysed, unable to move, unable to speak. The rush of thought and feeling through his head leaves no room for muscle coordination and movement.

 

But as she turns and makes to leave, to escape, his reaction is instant.

 

"Wait!" His own voice is now also hoarse, pleading. "Lisa, wait." Come back. Come back to me. He drops his cane and walks towards her, the constant, stabbing pain in his leg forgotten.

 

And then she is there, in his arms, her warm body heaving against his chest, tears staining his shirt. She cries, grieving her failed relationship with Lucas, grieving that she had pushed the man she really loved away out of fear of being hurt. And he holds her close, stroking her hair, comforting her, chasing away the memories of pain and regret and rejection.

 

"I'm here, Lisa, I'm here," he whispers. "I've always been here."


End file.
